


won't let you go

by sapphictomaz



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Is A Grounder (The 100), F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grounder AU, Holidays, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21915001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphictomaz/pseuds/sapphictomaz
Summary: There is nothing shared in Clarke and Murphy's lives. They come from opposite clans who have a history of warfare between them. She lives in the jungle, while he calls the mountainside home.  She celebrates the holidays by dancing the year away, and he does so by claiming dominance on another year that has passed.They meet, anyways, and realize that sometimes, you have to make your own traditions.Title is from "Won't Let You Go," by FRENSHIP & Bastille.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/John Murphy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59
Collections: Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange 1.0





	won't let you go

**Author's Note:**

> CHOPPED: THE 100 FANFIC CHALLENGE - HOLIDAY EXCHANGE
> 
> TROPE #1: childhood friends-to-lovers  
> TROPE #2: grounder au  
> TROPE #3: tattoos  
> TROPE #4: body painting

**Year One.**

There is a rocky outcrop racing down the face of a mountain, far away from any civilization. This is where the Boudalan Clan makes their home. Sometimes referred to as simply the Rock Line people, Boudalan is made up of warriors who have acclimatized to the harsh terrain. Villages are built all along the mountain, each one tersely connected, but all of them mostly isolated.

This, they say, is the way that they like it to be.

There is a dense, large area of greenery that begins near the base of the mountain. For the most part, the Boudalan ignored it, preferring the openness of the rock-face. It does not take long for another Clan to claim the unused territory, pushing their boundaries right to the edge of the mountain. These people call themselves the Yujleda – _Broadleaf_ – and they are loud. They dance, and they cheer, and they celebrate. Where the Boudalan sought and achieved dominance over their land, the Yujleda respect the territory as is, and do not attempt to take more than they can give back.

This, they say, is the way that all the Clans should live. The Boudalan disagree. It does not take long for the war to begin.

After many years of burning villages and bloodshed, it is on the dawn of winter that the two Clans meet at the agreed-upon border and sign a peace treaty. Snowflakes lightly fall from the sky as the pact is made and sealed. Every year, when the moon reaches its fullest point on the darkest day of the year, the Clans remember what brought them here.

A few short months after this, a Boudalan boy named Murphy is born.

**Year Six.**

At the end of his sixth year, Murphy is finally old enough to get his warrior tattoo.

The day affectionately known as _Mastide_ is upon them. It occurs in the dead of winter, every year, when the days have grown horribly short and the cold slices the Boudalans’ bones. Mastide begins with all village members who have reached six years gaining their first tattoo. After this, villagers return home, and each one adds a line to their already existent tattoos, to celebrate another year of life, and remember those who perished that year in battle.

It’s a ceremonious process, one that his parents have told him about his entire life. When the days grow short, all of Boudalankru’s young gather in their villages and receive the marking of their Clan, indicating their status as a warrior.

“All of Boudalankru are warriors,” his father had told him when he was much younger and still had the curiosity to ask. “It has always been our way.”

His father had turned around, then, and shown Murphy his back. On the top right shoulder was the beginning of his warrior tattoo; two vertical lines with six horizontal ones in between them, both ends open to symbolize the uncertainty in both birth and death. Below this, snaking down his father’s back, were continuations of the two vertical lines and countless more horizontal ones below the first six, each line representing a year of life.

Murphy had drawn his hand over the lines, old enough to feel the way his father shuddered at the touch, but too young to know why. “We were at war for many years,” was the only answer he’s ever gotten. “It’s different, now.”

Now, he’s lived six years. Six is an important number for the Boudalan people – they are the sixth clan in the coalition, after all. He’s six, and the days have grown much shorter, and when he looks up at the night sky the moon has reached her fullest point. Murphy knows what this means. Tonight, he becomes a warrior, and tomorrow, he trains.

His parents lead him into the center of the village where he joins an already assembled group of young children. They’re not children, not anymore – that’s the whole point of this – but it’s hard to call them otherwise when he’s only six, and he’s the tallest one there. He doesn’t know any of the others all that well, but that’s his own fault more than anyone else’s.

Gently, snow begins to fall in the village. A flake brushes his cheek and he smiles, out of nothing but nostalgia for a childhood he’s leaving behind.

Their village leader, a woman named Thia, begins the ceremony. Murphy doesn’t listen to much of what she’s saying. Instead, he wonders if every Boudalankru village is having a ceremony at this same second done exactly the same way. If it wasn’t for the rocky, mountainous terrain that their Clan’s territory was on, he imagines that they’d all come together on this night instead of staying separated. He wonders what the other Clans are doing.

The cold makes him shiver involuntary. Murphy wonders why they do this in the winter.

“Welcome to the ceremony of _Mastides_ ,” Thia calls, and the village cheers. A snowflake lightly touches down on Murphy’s nose and he tries to blink the cold away. The origin of the ceremony’s name is unknown to him – the day itself is known as Mastide, and the season of snow is referred to sometimes as Mas, but that is as far as his knowledge extends.

Perhaps Murphy should be listening, but he finds it hard to focus on anything but the snow as Thia continues her speech. He already knows what is to happen – he will get his first tattoo today. It will be done by the village leader, to symbolize his commitment to not only the village, but the Clan at large. Every year after that, on the day of Mastide, his loved ones will add another line to his tattoo, and they will celebrate their lives.

There are five children in the ceremony this year – a decent sized group, considering their village is small and at the edge of Boudalan’s territory, in a place many still feel is unsafe. As luck would have it, Murphy is picked to go first.

He’s nervous, though later on he’ll insist that his shivers were due only to the cold. Still, he approaches, then gets on his knees in front of Thia. There is a large, flat stone next to her feet, and he leans over his, his elbows on the stone and his knees on solid ground. On Thia’s nod, he removes his shirt, exhaling sharply as the cold hits his skin. He wants the tattoo on his right shoulder, mimicking his father’s exactly.

Later on, his mother will say that this is the only time he made his father cry.

Thia sits, getting a good position, and then she begins. The tattoo is done with some sort of stick and some ink. Beyond this, he doesn’t know, except that each time Thia hammers the stick into his skin it feels as though he’s being sliced right open.

He cries and he howls, because he is six, but this is not seen as shameful.

Thia’s practiced at this, and it is over quickly. Afterwards, he stands of his own accord and smiles as his people cheer and his parents approach, taking his hands and guiding him through the crowd. In the moment, filled with euphoria and adrenaline, Murphy understands the true meaning of Mastide for the first time.

They stand near the back as the remaining four children gain their tattoos, and each time, they cheer. It’s unification, he understands – this is what’s important of today. This is why they do this in the winter, in the harshest season for all the Clans.

The ceremony ends, and all the villagers return home. There are no gatherings done tonight – it is a night for families to celebrate each other and bond, as well as remember their ancestors. His parents both wear chains of stones which, he’s been told, represent ancestors who have been lost to time.

His father sets him to bed with a smile, and in the next room, he tattoos another line on his mother’s arm, and she adds another line to his back.

They are warm, they are safe, and they are loved.

**Year Seven.**

Murphy’s trained for a year now, and he’s stronger, but he’s still young. Boudalan remains war-free. He wonders, sometimes, what the point of it all is.

This year’s Mastide is a big one. There are eleven children turning six – the largest number in the village’s history. He walks behind his parents as they leave their home to go to the village center for the ceremony, but as Murphy takes a step to follow them, he hears what he’s sure is a faint _scream_.

He stops in his tracks, spinning around, but he can’t see any sign of danger. His parents continue on ahead, seemingly unaware, lost in the excitement of the day. Murphy stays where he is. For a moment, all is silent, and he thinks he only imagined it, but then, faintly, he hears it again. Curiosity overrules caution and he begins to walk the opposite way of the other villagers, approaching the edge of their territory.

As he gets closer and closer to the source of the sound, he hears what he thinks is laughter.

He walks until he’s past the village homes, and he’s gone down the mountain face only slightly. The green of the jungle that marks the end of their territory is visible now. Halfway between the start of the foliage and the edge of the mountain is the line of territory drawn between Boudalan and Yujleda. Murphy’s going into dangerous territory.

Still – he knows what he heard. If someone’s in danger, he has to help. It’s what he’s been training for this past year.

The wind’s going strong, biting into his skin. He has to shield his eyes on the approach, but then, when he opens them widely again and takes in the entire scene, he sees her.

No – he sees _them_. There’s a small group of children, about his own age, standing very close the territory border line – but standing on the side of Yujleda. It’s then that he realizes that these are not his own people and coming out here was a foolish idea.

One of the children sees him, and his eyes go wide. “ _Run_!” he cries, and in a moment he’s turned around and sprinting back into the brush, taking another of the children with him. One girl, though, the one he originally saw – she remains.

“Hello,” she says, softly. Her eyes, a brilliant blue, seem to sparkle in the cold. Her hair is light and long, braided into a complex style that he can’t even come close to deciphering the intricacies of, and her clothes, though made of the same simple fabric that his are, seem more elegant than any Boudalan member.

He should leave. He should turn around and walk back. He’ll still have time to see the ending of the Mastide ceremony, and then he’ll – “Hello,” he says, instead, and slowly continues his approach until he’s standing right in front of her.

She regards him carefully, but she smiles the whole time. “You are not from my village.”

“No.”

“I am Clarke, of Yujledakru,” she replies. Her voice is soft, yet full of light.

Murphy’s brow furrows, and he looks down, seeing how close he is to her. He imagines a line dividing them, stretching into the horizon in both directions. This is a line that was fought over for many years. He wonders what his ancestors would say if they could see him now, standing so close. “I am Murphy,” he finally says, “and you should not be so close to the border.”

Clarke laughs gently. “I know. We just wanted to see it. Our festival is always held outside of our village, so we’re far closer to the border on this day than we normally are.”

“You should go. I should go, too.”

“Wait,” she says, “why don’t you come with me to our festival?”

“Festival?”

“Of course! It’s Ristmas, after all.”

Murphy scoffs. “ _Ristmas_?”

At this, Clarke crosses her arms defensively and pouts. “ _Yes_. On this day, every year, we dance, and feast, and give gifts to celebrate our lives. Does – do you not do this?”

Murphy’s about to respond, but then he thinks better of it and shakes his head. “Leave,” he says, “and – and don’t come back!”

Clarke only sighs. “You can still come,” she says, but then she’s walking away, disappearing into the foliage, the quivering leaves in her wake the only sign she was every really there.

Murphy takes one last look in her direction, and then turns around and returns home.

**Year Eight.**

Murphy spends the year training, but every so often, a flash of blonde hair slices its way into his memory and he wants to go back to the border, to hope that Clarke might be there.

It’s silly. It is – is it?

That year, after the Mastide ceremony, he adds another line to both his father’s and his mother’s tattoo. His hands are shaky as he does so, and the lines turn out less than perfect, but it is the thought behind the actions that count. He knows this, now.

He goes to sleep, but before he drifts off for the year, he hopes that both Clarke and Yujleda are having a wonderful Mastide.

**Year Nine.**

As the sun rises over the horizon on the morning of Mastide, Murphy decides that today he’ll go back.

He’s been considering it for close to two years now, but today, he decides, he’ll go back to the border and wait. It’s a silly plan. There’s no guarantee that Clarke will even show up, and if he’s spotted by another, less friendly member of Yujleda, then there’s no coming back from this decision.

Yet – he’s compelled to go through with it.

That’s how he finds himself at the base of the mountain, a wide expanse of greenery spreading all around in front of him. His feet slowly edge closer to the imaginary line. A small voice in his head dares him to go further, but he remains honour bound, and he stays on his side of the border.

He waits for what he thinks is many hours. He knows that his parents trust his independence by now, but he can’t help but wonder if he’s worrying them. Really, he should go back. Murphy’s being foolish, and –

In this distance, he hears what he thinks is a song.

Still bound by convention, he doesn’t venture closer, but he closes his eyes and _listens_. The melody is cheerful, and he can’t tell what is creating the sound from this distance, but it isn’t long before he hears a large chorus begin to sing. The words are too muddled through the foliage to make out, but he hears the joy imbedded in them. He hears people cheering, and singing merrily, and his heart lifts.

When he opens his eyes, she’s emerging from the treeline.

“You _did_ come,” Clarke says, a sparkle enchanting her eye. She looks, for the most part, the same as he remembered her to be. Her shirt hangs somewhat loosely off of her left shoulder, and he notices a thickly lined tattoo on her collarbone – the mark of the Yujleda. It’s the outline of a leaf, with a line going through the center. It looks to be a mark of symmetry, but Murphy couldn’t begin to guess at the deeper meanings behind it.

Clarke seems to notice that he’s staring, and fixes her clothing, so that only the tip of the leaf is visible. “Never seen a tattoo before?” she jokes.

Murphy can’t help the way his brow furrows defensively. “I’ve seen _lots_ ,” he counters, but by the way she starts laughing, he realizes that it’s not a competition.

When Clarke’s recovered, her expression shifts, and the sparkle in her eyes turns to a fire of fury. Before he knows it, she’s marching forwards, crossing the border line and shoving him, as hard as a nine-year-old can. Murphy stumbles back, not expecting it. “You weren’t _here_ last year!” she says.

He holds up his hands in surrender, and she seems to soften, stepping back only once and crossing her arms in defiance. “I’m…sorry,” he finally says. “I thought about it.”

“I waited for you.”

“You did?”

“ _Yes_. And you didn’t show up.”

Murphy glances at the ground, realizes that Clarke’s standing on the side of Boudalan, and realizes that he doesn’t mind it so much. “You know that it’s wrong for us to meet like this.”

Clarke scoffs. “Why? You’re my friend.”

His eyes narrow. “We’re from different Clans – _enemy_ Clans. What would the ancestors say?”

“The stories say a peace treaty is held. We’re not enemies anymore.”

“But our ancestors _were_.”

Clarke makes a dramatic point of scanning the horizon, turning around in a full circle and examining every area. “I don’t see the ancestors here. Do you?”

Murphy shakes his head. “That’s not the point.”

“Listen,” Clarke says, “I don’t know why, but I like you. I want to be your friend. Do you want to be my friend?”

And this is it. He could turn around, return to the safety of his Clan, and forget that this ever existed. But – he does like Clarke, and he wants to talk to her more. He wants to learn about her Clan, and the more he thinks about it, the more he’s convinced that the ancestors wouldn’t have a problem with this. “Yes,” he finally says.

The smile that she gives him is bright enough to penetrate the cold of the day and bring the sun back over them. “Great! We’re friends, then.”

“Yeah,” he says, and he can’t help but smile, too. “Friends.”

“Now, you should come to our festival,” Clarke says.

“I can’t,” Murphy replies, “I’ve got a ceremony to go to.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. “So, you _do_ celebrate Ristmas!”

“No – it’s called Mastide. It’s a warrior ceremony.” He thinks, for a second, that he shouldn’t be sharing the secrets and ways of their people, but then he gets over himself. “All the six years of the village get their warrior tattoos.”

Clarke nods, oddly thoughtful. “And after that there are celebrations?”

“Not loud ones,” he says, “not like Yujleda.”

“Hey! We’re not _that_ loud.”

“Yes,” he says, “to us, you are.”

“Maybe you’re just too quiet.”

“We are _not_!”

Clarke just laughs. “Many villages come together to celebrate Ristmas, in my Clan. We have the celebrations very close to the border, because the land is unused and there is an open clearing to use. We sing, and dance, and feast, and give gifts to our loved ones.”

“I see,” Murphy says, “so – every other day, you are far away from here?”

Clarke tilts her head, deep in thought. “Yes,” she finally says, “the journey here takes a while for our village, but – we make sure to arrive for this day.”

“Ah. I understand.”

“Are you – are you sad?”

“No.”

She sees right through his façade. “It’s okay – we still have this day, you know. We’ll have this day every year.”

Murphy nods, brings his eyes back up from the ground and locks them in hers, feeling the infectious nature of her smile grab hold of him again. “Yes,” he agrees, “we will always have this day.”

That night, he returns for the ceremony and cheers alongside his Clan and his parents. Afterwards, he tattoos them both again, just as last year, and the lines are much straighter and much more delicately done.

**Year Ten.**

He remembers what Clarke said last year, about how it was a Yujleda custom to give their loved ones gifts. He doesn’t know exactly what this means, but he remembers. During a trip to the Polis market in the heat of the summer, he trades for a beaded necklace that one of the Trikru merchants has. Murphy’s not sure if she’ll like it, but he hopes that she’ll understand it’s the thought behind the actions that counts.

He hides the beads in his home, and they sit for half of the year, waiting for their time as the days grow shorter and the air grows colder. The stones that the trader chose to make it with are perfectly shaped, coloured, and perfectly placed. Sometimes, if he’s ever feeling less than content, he’ll hold it in his palm and it will be as if Clarke’s in the room, smiling brighter than any sun he’s ever seen.

On the morning of Mastide, he’s quick to slip out and make his way to the border. This time, he doesn’t mind the waiting – he knows that Clarke’s making a long journey, and she’ll be here in all due time. Still, he doesn’t have to wait long at all for her to emerge from the foliage, smiling bright as ever.

“Murphy!” she calls, happily, and then she runs forwards and embraces him. Upon contact, he tenses from the unfamiliarity of the gesture, but slowly, he returns the hug. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she says, as she breaks away.

“Me, too,” he says, transfixed for a moment in the brightness of her eyes. When he recovers himself, he remembers the necklace, and holds it up for her to see.

Clarke’s eyes widen, analyzing every detail of it. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

“It’s, um – a gift.”

Her gaze shoots up in surprise. “A gift? For me?”

His confidence is faltering. “You said that giving gifts was customary for your people, so I thought – I would do that. For you.”

She smiles again, but this one is different – it starts in the corner of her mouth, and then spreads to take up the rest of her face, perhaps involuntarily. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft, as she reaches out and picks up the necklace, holding it carefully as if she’s afraid of breaking it. “This is – thank you.”

Murphy just smiles, relieved. “Of course.”

“I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry, I didn’t – I didn’t think it was something your Clan did.”

Truly, he doesn’t mind. “That’s okay – it’s not.”

She nods, and then laughs. “I’m honoured, then, to be the recipient of your first gift.”

Much like last year, they spend the day together, walking along the borderline and talking about anything they can think of. When the sun begins to dip, and the music from the Yujleda festival is heard, they part ways.

“I invited you to our festival when we first met,” she says, before they do so. “That still stands, if you want.”

“Thank you,” he says, “but I have my own ceremony, like you. Mastide is a day for families in Boudalan, and it’s important to me that I be with mine.”

“Of course,” she says, “I understand completely.”

Before she turns to leave, Murphy acts on impulse and reaches out to hug her, just as she did when she first arrived. “Oh!” she exclaims, but then hugs him back quickly, and for that very moment, Murphy feels truly at peace.

The feeling lasts as he returns to his Clan, and watches the Mastide ceremony go on, just as it does every year. He gives his parents another line on their tattoo; his father gives him one on his own tattoo.

Mastide has quickly become his favourite day of the year, and he sleeps soundly that night.

**Years Eleven, Twelve & Thirteen.**

He meets Clarke three more times in three more years. She tells him that she’s an artist, and her mother is a healer, who often travels village to village. Clarke’s learning how to be a healer herself, but she prefers to paint, something that Murphy’s only heard of, never actually seen.

“I paint on the trees, sometimes,” Clarke says to him, and she explains she uses what she calls _brushes_ made from horse hair, something that he can’t even imagine. She crushes berries to use their colours and uses pigments from the dirt itself to gain the shades found there. “I use charcoal the most, though,” she says, explaining that she’ll burn sticks and any disposable material, using their ashes in her drawing.

“That’s incredible,” Murphy says, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

He tells her of his training, and how he’s become a warrior in the now six years he’s been training, and that should Boudalan ever face another war, he’d be out in the frontlines. It’s work he takes pride in. Murphy likes the feeling of being able to defend not only his village, but his entire Clan.

He meets Clarke three more times in three more years, and each time when it’s over, he finds himself looking forwards to the next one.

**Year Fourteen.**

That year, amidst the horrible heat of June, there is a fire in the village. Both of Murphy’s parents take a main role in dousing out the flames. Both of Murphy’s parents succumb to them.

It’s because of their actions that the number of casualties is very low. Somewhere, deep inside, Murphy’s both proud and thankful of this, but it does nothing to fill the gaping hole that they have left in his chest.

That evening, what remains of their bodies is burned, their ashes scattered off the mountainside, joining in the wind’s dance like all their ancestors were. Before they go, Murphy slips the bracelet of stones off his father’s wrist and slides it onto his own. Each stone represents an ancestor. He’s quick to add two more, placing them side by side.

He lives alone, now, because he is old enough to. His village helps, and for that he is thankful, and when it matters, he appears strong. Murphy’s been trained to appear strong. Yet – when he is alone, all he knows is that it all feels _wrong_.

After six months, Mastide rolls around, and his feet take him to the border before his mind can analyze the actions. This year, he doesn’t have to worry so much about leaving before anyone asks him where he’s going. That should excite him, but it truly does only the opposite.

This year, he doesn’t bring her a gift. He doesn’t know what he could possibly bring. When Clarke enters the clearing, however, she does not mind at all. Her face immediately softens at the sight of him and she pulls him into an embrace, forgetting any and all formality, even though that’s something that’s never really existed between them.

“Are you alright?” she whispers, and though he’s taller, he finds himself burrowing his face in the crook of her neck, closing his eyes and breathing in the moment.

“No,” he finally answers, because with her, he can’t be anything but truthful.

They sit at the border, close enough that their knees touch, and she listens as he tells her about the fire. He tells her about their deaths, about how he spread their ashes into the wind, about how he now wears their stones on his wrist. He tells her that now, whether he likes it or not, every action he does must be done to honour them, and he’s not sure if he’s ready for that responsibility.

Clarke’s silent and thoughtful as he explains. When he’s done, she gently places a hand on his, and then waits until he can look her in the eye to smile softly in reassurance. “You say you gave them to the wind,” she says. “Is that the way of your people?”

Murphy only grows aware of the way the wind is slicing through them this very second, and he wonders if this is a punishment or a sign. “Yes,” he says, “the spirits of our ancestors join the wind when they leave us.”

“Then, they are here with you now.”

He blinks, looking over the foliage, watching the ways the branches and leaves twist as the wind shoots by against them. He takes note of the power that it has, the way that the entire world shifts depending on the trajectory of the air, and he knows that this is possible because of his parents’ strength. “Yes,” he says, “I think that they are.”

Clarke hesitates for a second, and then, “My father was killed when I was very young, in a hunting accident. My people believe that our spirits join the trees when they leave this world. Knowing that gives me some solace, though it is hard.”

“The trees are powerful,” Murphy says, “much like you are. I know he’s with you, too.”

She smiles again, and then stands, offering her hand. He takes it, and she pulls him up effortlessly, despite her slender frame. “Wow,” he says, “Yujleda are stronger than they appear.”

Clarke sticks out her tongue in mockery. “Boudalan doesn’t give us enough credit!”

“That’s true,” he says. There is weight behind these words.

She glances to the treeline, and then back at him. “Come with me,” she says, “to the festival.”

“No, I couldn’t–”

“Please,” she says, taking hold of his hand once more. “It pains me to think of you spending this day alone.”

He swallows thickly, his throat going dry. Murphy won’t lie – he’s thought about how horrible it will feel to return home after the Mastide ceremony, to a home that is empty and quiet. This year, he will not get to add another line to his parents’ tattoos. If he had known last year would be the last time, then he would have –

There’s no real point to these thoughts, he decides. “The rest of your people,” he says, “will they be as welcoming?”

Clarke stops and purses her lips, as if she hasn’t thought about this. Most likely, the thought hadn’t ever crossed her mind. “There are many villages at the festival,” she finally says. “If anyone asks, you can always claim to be from a far-away one.”

“And that will work?”

“We don’t all know each other,” she scoffs. “It will work. You’ll be with me, anyways.”

Murphy casts one last look behind him, but then nods, and allows Clarke to lead him forwards and into the dense greenery in front of them. The initial shock of crossing the border wears off after a few moments, and he allows himself to be encased in wonder as he is swallowed by _green_.

Compared to Clarke, his steps against the forest floor are loud. He crunches leaves and cracks sticks with every step, whereas she seems to dance over the ground, travelling soundlessly. He knows that here, his harsh features and appearance will stand out, yet her striking blonde hair seems perfectly matched for this scenery. She glides between trees and ducks under branches as if it is second nature to her, and really, he supposes that it is.

It doesn’t take long at all until the dense foliage breaks off, and he can see a wide, expansive clearing of grass in front of them. “Ready?” Clarke asks, turning around to give him a look of pure excitement and glee. She doesn’t give him a chance to answer, and instead pulls him into the clearing behind her.

There are people _everywhere_. Music is coming from the right side of the clearing, with people joining in and leaving at seemingly random times. Some are dancing in groups, some in pairs, and some dance alone. Everyone, though, is smiling and laughing. A long table, fashioned from elegant wood, stretches out at one edge, filled to the brim with food that is available to anyone who wishes. Off to the other side are several rows of tents, stretching back further than he can see.

Most strikingly, though, is the lanterns that line all the trees that surround the clearing. It looks to Murphy like they are made of a thin silk-like material, each with a simple candle inside. The sun is still up, so the light that they give off is minimal, but he can only imagine the ethereal glow that they give off when the night takes its hold.

“Welcome to Yujleda,” Clarke says, and he snaps back to reality.

“It’s…I’ve never seen anything like this,” he says breathlessly. Clarke squeezes his hand in reassurance, but still, he isn’t sure where to begin with something like this.

“There’s lots to do,” she says. “We could go sing, or watch the music, or if you want to, we could dance, or–”

She keeps speaking, but Murphy loses focus as he nervously glances around. Some of the older Yujleda are noticing his appearance. He can tell, by the odd looks they’re giving him, that they’re not convinced he’s one of them. Really, Murphy can’t blame them – where the people of Yujleda are swift and slender, Murphy’s broader, his muscles and cheekbones more defined than anyone here. Those younger, or around Clarke’s age, don’t seem to take any particular notice of him, but he realizes he must bare resemblance to those that the older Yujleda fought a war against.

“I don’t think I should stay,” he whispers to Clarke. “I don’t blend in.”

Clarke’s brow furrows, and she begins to pick up on what he means. “Okay,” she says, “I have an idea. Follow me.” She hasn’t let go of his hand, so the command is unnecessary, as she leads him around the outskirts of the clearing and towards the area full of tents. It is into one of these that she leads him, making sure the flaps are closed behind them.

The tent itself is empty, consisting only of some bedding and – painting? He’s never seen it before but based on what Clarke’s described to him over the years, he can tell the brushes and colours he’s looking at are supplies for her passion. “Sorry,” she says, “I’d have cleaned if I knew someone was coming.”

“This tent, it’s all yours?”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s normally my mother’s, too, but this year she had to travel to another village to help a woman give birth.”

He nods, visibly relaxing. “I’m sorry,” he says, “you should be out there, enjoying the day. I’ll be alright here.”

She shoots him a look, as if to say _are you serious_? “And I’ll be alright here, too.”

Murphy smiles briefly, gratefully, but still is unsure what to do with himself. “Um – is that your painting?”

Instantly, she beams. “Yes,” she says, “let me show you!”

They spend a while sitting on the tent floor, Murphy watching as Clarke shows him the paintings that she’s brought. There is one of the sky, and there is another of what appears to be the very mountain he lives on. A third is a charcoal drawing of an older woman, who Clarke explains is her mother. “I have lots more at home,” she says, which amazes Murphy even more. The intricacies in her work are astounding. Murphy wishes he had even a portion of her talent.

“These are incredible,” he says. “They must take a lot of work.”

“They do,” she agrees, “but I enjoy it, and that makes it worth it.”

Murphy scans the artwork once more. “Is it not difficult to find materials?”

Clarke laughs, setting the portraits aside. “The colours themselves are easy enough,” she replies, “because I can make them out of almost anything. It’s hardest to find things to paint _on_. I like using hides best, but we need those for other purposes most of the time.”

“So, what do you do?”

“Well,” she says, “lately, I’ve started using skin.”

“What?”

“Think about it!” she says. “Our bodies, they are canvases themselves. Skin makes the perfect surface, and after I’m done…the painting _moves_.”

He thinks he’s beginning to understand. “It’s not permanent, though, is it?”

“No,” she says, “but that doesn’t matter so much.”

He supposes that she’s right. “Okay,” he says, “then – will you give me one?”

Clarke’s entire face lights up. “You want me to paint something now? On you?”

“You don’t have to,” Murphy says, quickly, realizing he’s probably overstepped. Her art is a personal thing, and he doesn’t have a right to intrude in that, except –

“Of course, I will,” she says, and all his uncertainty leaves him just as quickly as it came. “Where would you like it done?”

He thinks for a moment, then remembers how when he was very young, his father showed him his back, and revealed all the lines stretching down it that marked the intervals of his life. The choice seems obvious after this memory. He lifts his shirt off, exposing his back to her.

For a moment, Clarke seems entranced by his tattoo. She reaches up and touches it, tracing the vertical line all the way down. He shivers involuntarily under the touch. “Thirteen lines,” she says, softly. “Thirteen years?”

“Yes,” he says. “One is added each Mastide.”

She tilts her head, thoughtfully. “Are you ready?” she asks after a moment.

He nods his affirmative and lets her guide him into a position where he’s lying on his stomach, his head on its side, resting on his crossed arms. For a moment, nothing happens, but then her fingers begin sliding down his back, leaving traces of colour behind her. He hadn’t realized it was all done by hand. The feeling of it and the peace of the moment envelop him, and he closes his eyes in contentment.

Her movements are slow, delicate, and thoughtful. The music from the festival outside dulls and fades into the background, and all he can hear is own breathing and the sound her hands make when they make contact with his skin. It’s soft, but it’s purposeful, and he feels truly privileged to be able to experience this.

There are moments where she leans in, reaching areas of his skin that are harder to get to, and he’ll inhale sharply at the close proximity. There are moments where she lifts her fingers off his skin and stops, appraising what she’s done, and he’ll long for the sensation to return.

There are moments where he feels truly lucky, and truly blessed, to be in this moment and call it his own.

And then she’s done, and she tells him to stay still, for a second, while she rummages through her supplies. Clarke pulls out a small piece of glass, then, and holds it up so it reflects his back. He twists, looking at the reflection, and – _wow_.

Across his back, she’s painted a brilliant sunrise, full of reds, oranges and yellows. The horizon stretches out, and she’s joined that line with the existent line of his tattoo, creating one seamless picture. It’s beautiful. It’s majestic, it’s magical, and somehow, it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

“Thank you,” he says, and he has to fight the tears that threaten to escape his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

Clarke smiles from ear to ear. “I’m glad you like it,” she says.

In the moment, with weakness and vulnerability gripping a tight hold on his bones, he blurts out, “Could you do one more thing for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you ever tattooed anyone before?”

Clarke’s silent for a second, but her inhale is evidence that she’s figured it out. “Are you sure?” she says. “Shouldn’t you…you don’t want someone from your Clan to do it?”

“I’m sure,” he says, “if you’re alright with that.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll be right back.” She leaves, and true to her word, returns swiftly, carrying what looks like the same equipment Thia uses to tattoo the six years every single ceremony.

This time, he sits, bracing himself against the edge of the bedding as she gets into a good position. “Just one line, right?” she asks. “Underneath the others?”

“Yes,” he says, and with only a brief moment of hesitation, she begins.

It hurts – he isn’t going to lie and say it doesn’t. Clarke’s not as practiced at this form, and no doubt it’s harder to do _after_ she spent such a long, painstaking time making the sunset portrait, but she still does it the best she can. The line is short, the exact same length as the one above that his father had done for him last year, but it is perfect.

And then, it’s done, and while he doesn’t allow himself to cry, he _feels_ it.

“It’s dark out,” Clarke says afterwards, peering through the flaps of the tent. “I have an idea.”

“I shouldn’t go out there,” Murphy says, standing up and stretching his shoulder, careful not to disturb the fresh tattoo.

Clarke gives him a long, lasting look. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he’s saying before the question has even registered.

“Then, let’s go,” she says. “You might want to put a shirt on.”

The painting feels odd against its skin, as it moves with him. “I don’t want to ruin it,” he confesses.

“You will,” she says, “but that’s okay.”

With that, he slides his shirt back on, covering the image. His clothes will be covered in paints, he knows this, but he can’t seem to bring himself to care. Instead, he lets Clarke take him by the hand once more, and she guides him outside and back to the clearing.

Night has fallen, but the clearing is lit up all around by the lanterns that still hang in the trees. “What are those?” he asks, softly.

“Ristmas lights,” she replies. “We’ve always used them. When all the candles burn out, the festival is over.”

He nods, transfixed. She chuckles at his expression, then leads him out further into the clearing, amidst the throng of people dancing to the music that’s still going. He worries for a moment that people will see him, but he realizes that his dark hair and eyes blend into the night, and he draws no more attention to himself now that the sun is gone.

Clarke wraps her arms around his neck, and she lets out a cheer, moving to the rhythm of the music. At first, he’s stiff, but with her invitation he lets pretenses go and he laughs, dancing freely for the first time in his life. He doesn’t need to think about or worry about Boudalan until the morning.

They dance, and the lights slowly blink out around them, but they ignore it and dance some more, anyways.

**Years Fifteen & On.**

Clarke and Murphy meet at the border, as they always do, and an innate sense of peace passes between them.

“I’ve been thinking about you all year,” he confesses, because it’s true – he has.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she agrees, and reaches forwards, clasping his hand in hers. Gently, she strokes her thumb against his palm. “Maybe this year, I can see your ceremony.”

He sighs. “Maybe one year, when our Clans trust each other again. They’d recognize you too easily now, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re different than us,” he says. “You’re – brighter.”

She smiles, both in jest and sincerity. “Am I?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“That’s true,” she agrees, “but maybe I like hearing it.”

He laughs, and then before he can think it through, he lifts his free hand up to cup her cheek. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too.”

Murphy loses himself in her brilliant blue eyes, for a moment, and then leans forwards and brings his lips to hers, just for a second, just to check that it’s alright. In response, Clarke pulls him in again, and though it is the coldest day of the year, they kiss against the backdrop of the rising sun.

The wind rages harshly against his skin, filling his soul with life, and Murphy finally understands just why it is that they do this in the wintertime.


End file.
